Six-Gun Nemesis

By Colin Bainbridge

In Chaparral Bend a gallows is being raised for youngster Ty Garland, accused of bank robbery. But is he really guilty? His old ma claims he is innocent, and town tamer, Crossdraw Kitchenbrand, is inclined to believe her, especially as the notorious gunman Angel Addison and his gang, the Yuma boys, seem to be involved. Crossdraw's search for answers brings him up against big ranch-owner Landon Clovis and leads him to the outlaw roost of Addisonville. He can count on the support of the old woman and a girl he has rescued, but will that be enough to succeed against overwhelming odds? Will his six-guns finally bring justice?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Hale Fiction
• Release date: Apr 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780719823190

Colin Bainbridge

Colin Bainbridge writes under the pseudonyms of Emmett Stone, Jack Dakota and Vance Tillman. Born in South Shields he now lives in Northamptonshire.

Book preview

Chapter One

Kitchenbrand drew the roan to a halt and reached for his field glasses. Something strange had caught his eye. At first he had ignored it but, whatever it was, it kept popping in and out of his field of vision. It seemed to be some giant bird. It would appear for a moment and then vanish in the long grass, behind some bushes or a rock. The moments extended as he sat his horse and he was about to conclude that he must have been mistaken when he saw the object again. He clapped the glasses to his eyes and succeeded in getting a fleeting glimpse of something distinctly odd, but he still couldn’t make out what it was. Touching his spurs to the gelding’s flanks, he turned off the trail, reaching for his rifle as he did so. After riding for a time he stopped again. He could see no sign of the strange object but he thought he could detect a faint murmuring sound. He strained his ears as it came again, subsiding to a low mumble. The sound seemed to issue from a patch of vegetation and as he approached cautiously he began to pick out distinct words and expletives:

‘Landogoshen . . . Sassafras . . . Tarnation.’

If that’s a bird, he pondered, it ain’t much of a songbird.

The voice was high-pitched as it emerged from its background droning. Kitchenbrand slid the rifle back into its scabbard and dismounted. He walked towards the bushes and pushed his way through. In a small clearing there lay what seemed to confirm his impression that he had detected some unknown species of bird till he perceived a human figure covered with feathers. As he got close he saw that it was an old woman, and at the same moment in which he recognized her, the woman sensed his presence. She looked up at him through eyes which seemed preternaturally sharp and blazing through the black substance which smeared the rest of her features.

‘Consarnit, I ain’t scared of you,’ she hissed.

‘You ain’t got no cause to be scared, ma’am,’ Kitchenbrand replied. He knelt down beside her.

‘Don’t you go touchin’ me,’ she muttered. ‘I ain’t let no man touch me for thirty years and I don’t intend no-one doin’ it now.’

‘Ma’am,’ Kitchenbrand replied, ‘it was the furthest thing from my mind.’

‘I know your type,’ she replied. ‘Ain’t no woman safe no matter how she’s fixed.’

‘Ma’am, I can see you ain’t in the best of shapes. If you give me a moment, I have something which might help to restore you a little.’ He turned away and walked back to his horse. Tarred and feathered, he thought, but over her clothes. Still, it was a bad thing to do to an old woman.

In a few moments he was back with a flask of whiskey and a canteen of water.

‘Here, take a swig of this,’ he said. She didn’t offer any objections; sitting up straight, she poured a good draught of the liquor down her throat.

‘I got a canteen of water,’ Kitchenbrand said. ‘Maybe you could start tidying yourself up some.’ He passed her the canteen. She looked at him with her piercing eyes, then snatched it from his grasp. ‘I could help remove some of those feathers,’ he suggested.

‘Like I said, you just keep your hands off of me,’ she replied. ‘Your kind are always lookin’ for some excuse to start a-pawin’ at female flesh.’ She took another swig of the whiskey, which seemed to have a softening effect. ‘It’s good liquor,’ she said.

‘Eight rattlesnake heads to the barrel,’ Kitchenbrand replied. ‘If your eyeballs don’t start bleedin’ soon, there’s somethin’ wrong with you.’ She didn’t hand the flask back to Kitchenbrand but placed it instead on the ground. She took the canteen and splashed some of the water over her face. ‘Here, take this,’ Kitchenbrand said, removing his bandanna and handing it to her. She took it and wiped it across her features. The tar smeared but some of it came off. As far as Kitchenbrand could tell, she hadn’t been burned.

‘Low-down murderin’ varmints,’ she snarled.

‘You’re alive,’ Kitchenbrand said.

She looked up at him again with her fierce eyes. ‘No thanks to those coyotes. And they still got my grandson.’

She began to wipe her face again but soon abandoned the attempt to clean it in favour of trying to pull some of the feathers from her clothes. Kitchenbrand looked up at the sky. The sun was well down.

‘Seems to me it’s goin’ to take a while for you to get anywhere near bein’ cleaned up. Why don’t I set up camp right here while you get on with the job and then you can tell me just what happened?’

She pulled a few more feathers from her blackened gear without replying. Looking at her, Kitchenbrand was torn between laughter and pity. She was thin as an abandoned cur.

‘Figure you could do with some chowder,’ he said. ‘I got beans, bacon and coffee. Oh, and I got some spare duds. I guess they’re maybe a bit large, but I reckon you could do somethin’ with ’em.’

She seemed to weigh his words. ‘You ain’t got tobacco?’ she replied. ‘I would surely appreciate a quirley.’

Kitchenbrand grinned. ‘Could use one myself,’ he said. He reached into a pocket and brought out his pouch of Bull Durham. He threw it to the woman. ‘Roll yourself a cigarette,’ he said, ‘while I get my horse.’

‘Hope he ain’t allergic to feathers,’ the woman said.

By the time Kitchenbrand had got a fire going and cooked the bacon and beans, darkness had fallen. The old woman had made a fair job of cleaning herself up, but she still presented a sorry appearance. When she had eaten and drunk a mug of coffee, she was at least feeling better. She and Kitchenbrand built smokes and leaned back against some rocks.

‘Since it seems we’re gonna be spendin’ the night together,’ Kitchenbrand said, ‘I guess some introductions might be in order.’

‘Don’t need to know your name,’ the woman said. He told her it anyway. ‘Ain’t you gonna tell me your name?’ he added.

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Guess it don’t make any difference either way,’ she replied. ‘Folks call me old Virginy.’

‘ Take me back to old Virginny,’ Kitchenbrand quoted. ‘Like the song?’

She looked across at him with flashing eyes. ‘Which side were you on?’ she said unexpectedly.

‘If you’re referring to the War Between the States, ma’am, I was proud to call myself a Rebel.’

At his words her eyes seemed to soften and the flicker of a smile touched the corner of her mouth. ‘You were in it all the way through?’

‘Certainly was, ma’am.’

‘Maybe you ain’t so bad,’ she said.

‘I recall how after the slaughter at Sharpsburg,’ he murmured reflectively, ‘General Lee ordered us back across the Potomac and the regimental band switched from playing ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ to ‘Carry me Back To Old Virginny.’ If we had only. . . .’ He stopped and looked into the old woman’s face.

‘It was a long time ago now,’ she said softly, and for a moment he felt as though their roles had changed, that he was the victim and she was the one offering solace.

‘You got a second name?’ he asked.

‘Garland,’ she said.

‘That’s a nice name. Virginy Garland. Sounds kinda fresh, like spring.’

His comment evoked a chortle from his com-panion. ‘Ain’t nobody said anythin’ like that to me before, leastways not in a long time. I figure that’s the Forty-rod speakin’ we both been drinkin’.’

Kitchenbrand blew out a long stream of smoke and looked up at the stars. Some emotion that he could not define was tugging gently at his throat and chest. Maybe it was something to do with the war. He hadn’t thought about it for many a long day. He leaned over and poured fresh coffee into their mugs.

‘Maybe you’d better tell me what happened to you,’ he said.

‘Can’t you see?’ she replied. ‘Ain’t it obvious?’

‘I can see you’ve been tarred and feathered some, but that don’t tell me why.’

She was silent for a while and then suddenly the fire in her eyes blazed up again.

‘They wouldn’t have been able a few years ago,’ she snapped. ‘I can still take care of myself, but they caught me cold.’

He waited for a few moments before replying. ‘Who were they?’ he said. ‘And why did they do it?’

‘I might be an old worn-out woman,’ she replied, ‘but I ain’t finished with ’em. I’ll make ’em pay for what they done.’

Again he allowed time to pass before responding. ‘Maybe I can help you there.’

She twisted her head sharply to give him one of her penetrating glances. ‘Why do you say that?’ she said. ‘You don’t know nothin’ about me. You don’t owe me nothin’.’

‘Let’s just say I don’t like to see old ladies tarred and feathered,’ he replied. He blew out another ring of smoke. ‘Beggin’ your pardon for callin’ you old, ma’am, but I guess you know what I mean.’

After a moment her face relaxed. ‘No need for apologies,’ she replied. ‘Like I say, that’s what folks call me. Hell, I weren’t never any kind of calico queen.’ She sat back again, seeming to ponder the situation. ‘OK,’ she said at length. ‘If you really want to know, I’ll tell you the story.’ She coughed and spat into the fire. ‘I reckon you’re a stranger to the area?’ she said.

Kitchenbrand nodded in agreement. ‘Sure am. Passin’ through. Leastways, I was.’

‘Then you won’t have heard of the Yuma gang?’

Kitchenbrand’s hand paused on its way to his mouth with the cigarette. ‘The Yuma gang?’ he repeated.

‘Yup. That’s what I said.’

His hand resumed its motion and he took a drag. ‘Matter of fact I have,’ he replied. ‘If it’s the same bunch, I helped to put a few of ’em behind bars. But that was some time ago.’

‘Well, looks like some of ’em musta either busted out or got released and taken to their old ways again.’

‘Like I say, if it’s the same bunch.’ He turned his head sideways. ‘Are they the ones responsible for doin’ this to you?’

She shook her head. ‘No. The ones that did the tarrin’ and featherin’ did it because they claimed my grandson Ty is one of ’em. They held up a bank in Chaparral Bend. Some people got shot and the manager, Tom Farley, was killed. Folks reckoned Ty was the one responsible. They come for him and took him away.’

‘Who took him away? Some of the townsfolk?’

‘I reckon so. I thought I recognized one or two of ’em. Don’t get up to town too often. The only one I recognized for certain was a man name of Clovis. Landon Clovis. Runs a spread called the Latigo